Page 1 of Heartless Heathens

“YoucalloutGod’sname one more time while I’m between your legs, even he won’t be able to save you, little lamb,” he rumbled into my ear.

His anger was too apparent to deny, but somehow the fear he invoked from me just forced the liquid heat to pour out freely between my thighs.

With a single hand, he pinned my wrists above my head while thrusting his thick length deep inside me too fast, at an almost punishing pace. His tempo was steady and my breasts jiggled with every electrifying slam of his hips. His free hand palmed them under his coarse touch, sending shivers down my spine.

“Oh, G—” I cried out, stopping myself in time to remember his recent threat.

His mouth found the other nipple, his tongue swirling wildly across the hardened beads, and an unfamiliar feeling began to build low and deep within me.

“Does that tight pussy hurt when my fat cock stretches it out like this?” He thrust deeper into me, forcing another scream out of my throat, and I nodded.

But it hurt so good, and that was even more frightening.

“I knew you were a little slut,” he said, moving his hand down to my center, circling his fingers around the slick bundle of nerves he was pushing against.

The feeling in my core intensified, heat filling me up from the inside, begging to pour out.

“I didn’t think they could come their first time,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

I gasped and panted between violent thrusts, reaching for something I couldn’t grasp on my own.

“Look how well you take me.” He grinned, watching the motions between us with a marveled look dancing through his eyes.

A dark chuckle echoed through the room, but I couldn’t discern which of them it came from. It was too foggy to make out where we were and who was there.

“My dirty little whore. What would your God say if he knew you were calling his name while you squirmed on my cock like this?” he purred into my ear, his words meant to insult, but somehow unleashing the very thing I was holding back.

It exploded in a shockwave, like a dam bursting open. I moaned, clawing onto him, the sheets, whatever I could find as I rode on what I could only describe as a wave of pleasure that I was desperate to drown in.

“Filthy, filthy, whore.”

His voice began to morph, from the silky, deep rumble that melted me from the inside out to a sinister one. One that was filled with hate and a disapproval that doused my fire.

“I knew you were just like your disgusting whore of a mother.” He continued, his face slowly becoming focused as his voice became slimier and more vicious with each word.

His hand clasped around my throat. His eyes burned with a wild hatred, and he squeezed, cutting off my breath. Finally, I could see his features shaping into that of my guardian, Claüde Frollo.

I woke up in a frenzy, drenched in sweat, from the confusing nightmare. Reaching south to feel the aftermath of thetoorealistic fantasy. I parted my lips in shock to find how slick it was down there.

That was the third time this month I’d had that dream. It was the only one I seemed to ever have anymore. Sometimes there was more to it, sometimes I woke up and that’s where it ended. It was a story I couldn’t find the ending for.

The worst part about wondering whether you’d started to lose grip on reality was that no one could talk you out of it. Once you’d begun to toy with the very fabric of your own sanity, all you could do is grab a sled and slide down that steep slope like the Devil himself was on your back.

When I was younger, I used to think that everyone lived this way. That this was normal. But as the veil in front of my eyes slowly lifted, the story I clung to fell apart. I became jaded, bitter.

I looked around the room, those four walls were my entire world. I knew nothing outside of it. Except for that one week. My iPad glitched and the child locks didn’t work. I browsed YouTube for hours until I could feel my brain practically melting inside of my head. Father Frollo nearly lost his mind and tried accusing me of witchcraft. He said if I ever mentioned the accident again or any of the things I’d seen, he’d make me pay.

But the damage had been done. My mind began to collapse in on itself.

I tried to focus on something else, anything else. But his words always found me.

Worthless.

Filthy.

That’s what he’d said.

When someone fills your brain with an idea every single day, you start to wonder if maybe they’re onto something. What if they see you better than you see yourself? So you stay hidden, hoping that no one else will notice who you truly are.